


Truckstop Treasures

by ahimsabitches



Category: overwatch
Genre: Implied Transphobia, M/M, Semi PWP, Sex in a truckstop, Trans Junkrat, trucker AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-11
Updated: 2016-07-11
Packaged: 2018-07-23 01:36:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7461498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ahimsabitches/pseuds/ahimsabitches
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Roadhog and Junkrat are truckers. Junkrat drives the rig and Roadhog is his partner. Sometimes people treat Junkrat like shit, and Roadhog ain't having that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Truckstop Treasures

**Author's Note:**

> I am not trans so if I fucked up trans Junkrat somehow PLEASE let me know! Thanks!

Mako actually managed to get himself a little bloody this time.

Junkrat regarded him in quick flicks of his golden eyes, his mouth working with words he wanted to say but, for once, didn’t. Mako let him say or not say whatever he liked, swiped a hamhock hand across his mouth, and hawked a nice bloody loogie for the lugnut on the ground. It landed with a soft _plap_ on the crooked bridge of the man’s nose. He gurgled and his head lolled to the side, unseating the sweatstained cap from his balding head. A rill of blood rolled down his stubbly cheek from one nostril. He’d _keep_ there until the rain gathering darkly in the sky roused him.

There was a smear of blood on the back of Mako’s hairy hand. “Wait in the rig,” he told Junkrat, who held his aviators and the bandana that usually covered the bottom half of his face. “I’m gonna clean up.”

Without another word, he plodded across the asphalt desert of the parking lot back to the truckstop hunkered against the stiffening breeze like a steel-and-fluorescent spider, whose legs spanned out and became the pump islands. Junkrat always parked at the arse-end of the lot, which really only made him more of a target. He wouldn’t tell him that, of course, because Jamie needed to do what made him feel safe.

And it was Mako’s job to make sure, whatever he did, he _was_ safe.

Pain radiated up into his head in a steady, dull throb from the place on his jaw where the man’s fist had struck. Twice. He had been as almost as tall as Mako; definitely as wide. Mako hadn’t recognized him, but it was getting hard to keep up with so many bull necks, crewcuts, and ignorant hillbilly epithets for what was—or was not—between Junkrat’s legs.

Mako shouldered back through the door, which announced his presence to the inmates of the grease-stained building with a cheery _DEE-DOO_. The teenage ostrich behind the register did a doubletake, then hurriedly looked away. Eyes front, Mako returned to the well-accommodated restroom at the back of the aisles. He, head-and-shoulders above the tops of the aisles, knew how much he looked like a _shark_ cutting the water. The other haulers gave him a wide berth.

There was nobody in the bathroom. Small fucking blessings. He splashed cold water on his face, snorted gruffly into the galvanizing jolt. The face that glowered back at him from the streaky mirror was prickled with silverwhite stubble and whorled with blue-black Ta Moko over hoary brows, jowly cheeks, wide nose, swollen jaw, and chin.

He turned his head to get a better look at the swelling and saw a flash of yellow behind him.

Junkrat cannonballed into him as he turned. Wiry arms latched around his neck with cabled-steel strength and _squeezed._ Junkrat’s prosthetic cut into his neck and it hurt but not like his jaw hurt and he enclosed Junkrat in a hug and breathed deep of his scent: diesel and sweat; ozone and smoke; roadwind and bare skin.

Junkrat.

 _Jamie_.

Had it only been a week since he'd learned his partner's real name?

He nuzzled his face into Mako’s shoulder; gripped fistfuls of his flannel collar at the back of his neck.

“Hm. What if someone comes in?”

“I locked the door, mate. I ain’t _that_ daft.”

They were quiet for a moment. Mako’s great shoulders rose in another breath, then settled. A sound halfway between a groan and a growl escaped him on the exhale. He felt Jamie’s smile on his collarbone; he felt his kiss there too; he felt his teeth there and up his neck; then Jamie mashed his lips against Mako’s and it _hurt_ but he didn’t care, not when Jamie made those needful little whimpers; not when Jamie squirmed against him like that.

“Need you, ‘Hog,” Jamie whispered, his voice shaky and tight. “Bad. _Hurry_.”

“Mm,” Mako grunted. Jamie had already wormed halfway out of his raggedy shorts and was frantically scrabbling at the zipper of Mako’s coveralls. He set Jamie on the sink, slid one finger into him—already _sopping_ wet—and unzipped with the other hand. His coveralls puddled around his ankles with soft clinks of metal.

Jamie giggled and shimmied on Mako’s finger. “C’mon, Hoggy me Hog, put your back into it.”

Mako growled and steered his cock home with a sigh that ended in a desperate groan, rumbled into Jamie’s sinewy neck.

“There’s the Hog a’ me heart,” Jamie purred, and Mako felt his guts turn to melted butter. Jamie had him, locked-up solid _had_ him, and the completeness of Jamie’s grip on him startled him sometimes, as now.

They shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be fucking in a truckstop bathroom because they’d been caught fucking in a truckstop bathroom, and it had cost Jamie— _them,_ really—that contract.

But neither of them could _help_ it. Not when Mako was _this_ hard and Jamie was _this_ wet and the bite of Jamie’s sharp little teeth was _this_ exquisite and the gasping, breathless need in both of them was only filled by the surging strength in the other.

“One a’ these days I’m gonna find a way to bounce on yer dick while I’m drivin’. Just you wait. And we’ll spend all day like that. And all night. Bliss, eh, mate?”

It didn’t take long; it never did. Not when Mako’s body was still jazzed with adrenaline and Jamie was inside out with giddy gratitude and love.

Jamie muffled his own scream with a mouthful of Mako's shoulder as he pulsed hot jet spurts inside him. Mako shuddered, thrust in once, twice, three times, making Jamie giggle, and glanced up into the mirror. Jamie was _beautiful,_ from the graceful downward curves of his ribs to the upward arc of his hips, covered in smudges of dirt and oil and little scars, the origins of which Mako still tried to convince himself were because of falls or mishaps in a garage.

Jamie bent backwards and met Mako's eyes in the mirror, his upside-down grin grotesque in the flickering fluorescents. "I love ya, you know that, right?"

Mako ghosted a hand along Jamie's exposed neck and chest, over the twin hooked scars below his nipples. "Yeah," he said. "I love you too." He punctuated every word with a kiss on Jamie's lithe body, all the pain in his jaw gone: "Every. Single. Inch. Of. You."

As if the trucking gods were on their side, the door didn't rattle until they were cleaned and dressed, and the man on the other side was only a businessman with a sunken chest and a combover. Mako didn't even have to glower and the man skittered against the wall. Jamie handed him his aviators and bandana on the way out.

Mako stepped over the unconscious, bloody hauler on their way back to Jamie's rig. The hauler moaned and stirred as Jamie's peg punched him right in the solar plexus.

As he did after a good rooting, Mako slept. Jamie didn't rouse him, and he woke on his own with a snort and a start when Jamie dropped his dinner into his lap. The sky was velvet-dark, flecked with stars. Mako checked the GPS. Already almost in Savannah. He opened his mouth to ask Jamie how the fuck he'd made almost 280 miles in three hours, but he thought better of it. The answer would be the same as it always was: "Got me a good rig and a good partner, mate. S'all I need."

Something new on the dash caught his eye. Beside the cartoon bobblehead rat ("Eh, from some kiddie movie about a rat bein' somethin' no rat had ever been before," Jamie had said defensively back when they'd first met), was a bobblehead pig, upon which Jamie had drawn simple, uneven replicas of Mako's tattoos: the pig on his belly and the Ta Moko across his face.

Mako smiled, reached out and poked the little pig's head. It bobbled. He poked the rat's head. It bobbled. He poked Jamie's head. "Bobble bobble bobble," Jamie said, and his head bobbled.


End file.
